[ She smiles to herself and nurses some small thrill of anticipation. Her expectations have risen just enough that she can feel herself looking forward to his elegant penmanship beyond the spanreed back-and-forth, but fit and resized into the margins of a book. One of hers — which provides an even chance of already having a scattering of her notes within its pages. Another different thrill.
[ The spanreed makes a puddle of ink where it's pressed into the paper, unmoving. Don't, he scolds himself as his pulse pitter-patters. Don't make this into something it isn't. ]
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Getting cold hands?
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The answer she writes: ] Only one.
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I'd let you write in my books.
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What would I write?
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Whatever strikes you. Appreciation for a meaningful phrase. Corrections for bad logic. Questions you can't help but ask.
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[ It's really that easy! ]
But I'm afraid I'm not as clever as you. You might have to correct my corrections.
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[ Oh, look, we've made it full circle back to that depends entirely on whether the dummy can be taught. ]
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You know where my study is. Pick something under three-hundred pages. Annotations due on my desk in four days.
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Guess I should get to work then.
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And like a little puzzle piece, she adds: ]
Choose wisely.
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Good night, mon amie.